


Winchester, Dean. Hobbies: Resurrection

by AriesDraco



Series: And so do Angels [1]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: I should stop doing this in the middle of the night, I wrote this originally on tumblr, It may or may not be continued, M/M, Other, Some weird beginning to a crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:21:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriesDraco/pseuds/AriesDraco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Skyfall AU, starring Dean as Bond and Castiel as Q. Freshly resurrected, Agent 007 is sent to meet his new Quartermaster, who seems to know him pretty well for someone he'd never met in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winchester, Dean. Hobbies: Resurrection

**Author's Note:**

> I was surfing through the 'supernatural' tag on tumblr and came across someone saying that there should be a Supernatural/Skyfall crossover. In a fit of whimsy, I typed something up on the spot. Then the plot bunnies multiplied. But here's the tumblr fic for now, while I work out whether or if I should do anything with it...

He had been through Hell. And then he came back. And life went on as if he'd never left. But he never did leave, not really, not even when his body was elsewhere, warm and snug in bed with a woman who asked no questions and accepted him as he was, secrets and all.

He tried, he really did try to stay away. He'd been through Hell, he'd died. There had been a funeral. That life could have been over. Would have been over. But then he'd hear about things over the radio, see snippets of news on the telly, and his blood would sing, _"Winchester! Why aren't you protecting them? Winchester! What use are you rotting here and growing soft?"_

The terrorist attack was the last straw, so here he was, back. Older, slower, duller, _softer_ , but back. So even if this meeting at this _art gallery_  turned out to be as shit as the idea sounded, he knew exactly where he'd stashed the Impala with all of his favourite toys in her boot. Because really? Meeting up with his new quartermaster in a public place to collect his new weapons? The bomb must have loosened a few screws in Bobby's head.

Punishment, then? Because while he had long learned how to blend into any crowd, there was little that Dean Winchester hated more than modern art.

It was a sentiment that was apparently commonly shared, or perhaps because it was a Thursday afternoon, but there was hardly anyone around. It made him hesitate a little bit less approaching the seated figure in the tan trench-coat.

"007," greeted the man in the trench-coat quietly, eyes never straying from alleged art-piece on the wall. The low timbre of his voice was jarring, coming from a face so young. "I am your new quartermaster."

Dean just barely managed to keep himself from rolling his eyes. He did pause in the middle of trying to sit down though, causing the young man to turn to look at him. _Too quickly_ , his mind supplied. _Too obvious!_ Then those eyes caught his and he just stopped.

Blue. So blue that there were no other words to describe them. As blue as blue could be blue. 

And clear and bright and filled with barely restrained awe, dry lips parting, a flick of a pink tongue, so shamelessly staring. Staring at him, at this beat-up old agent, as if he'd just seen God.

It made him squirm a bit in his trousers, and then a lot more in discomfort, because he was Dean fucking Winchester, a double-0 agent, with hands so red with blood it was a wonder that he didn't stain everything he touched. Or perhaps he did and just never noticed? He was the man who made a deal with a devil, who pretended to be dead, who ran away to screw a MILF in the suburbs. Who he turned his back on his family, his duty, his country. There was nothing about him that deserved that worshipful gaze.

"You must be joking."

The young man tilted his head quizzically, a small frown creasing his brow. "You don't believe me."

"You're a kid."

"I assure you that I am a legal adult," replied said legal adult while looking for all the world like a confused little bird. Then something in those blue, blue eyes hardened and they narrowed. "You are questioning my competence."

"Damn right I am!"

The young man stood in a flurry of navy and tan, fast enough for Dean's instincts to kick in, but slow enough that he caught himself before he could respond violently to the hands gripping his shoulders tight. Because, after all, they were in a public place, and it wasn't good form to start a fight, no matter how badly his personal space was being invaded.

"I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition," stated the young man, blue eyes boring straight into his very being. "I am the one who opened the doors when all seemed lost, to let you out of the Hell of your own making. I am the one who posted the signs to lead you home, oh wayward son. So how. About. Some. Respect?"

It sent chills down his spine, and suddenly, he had a million questions he needed desperately to ask. The doors, the signs, 'wayward son'. He'd spoken to no one about how he'd managed to escape Hell, and though he'd been thankful that no one had asked, he thought he was beginning to understand why no one asked. They'd known, they'd all known, because they'd engineered it. Except that they couldn't admit to it, because, if those loyal agents knew, if they knew they could have been saved, but weren't... if they knew that one of their number had been saved while the rest were left to rot in Hell...

And then he'd squandered his dearly-bought freedom trying to pretend that his life had never happened.

He shut it down.

They were in a public place, standing so close they could have been lovers, though the young man in the tan trench had lowered his hands. Here and now was not the time to have an emotional breakdown, so Dean shut it away for later, hands automatically fussing with the messily-tied blue tie, much to the bewilderment of the young man to whom the tie belonged. Rookie. If they looked like lovers, better to keep up the charade than to allow people to pick up on incongruities, because people remembered incongruities. They wouldn't remember two gay men having a bit of a tiff in an _art gallery_.

When he was satisfied that the tie was properly tied, when he was satisfied that he was fully in control of himself again, he let his hands drop and took a step back. "If you wanted respect, you should consider not dressing like a tax accountant, Q."

Q blinked, and there was that quizzical head tilt again. Laughing with a mirth he could not feel, Dean patted the young man on the shoulder. "So, what have you got for me?"


End file.
